Persephone
by Seppuku Doll
Summary: The idea is borrowed from another pantheon, but the outcome is the same. Every winter, she leaves one for the other. Thor/Jane/Loki
1. The Coming of Winter

**A/N: **This is my first fanfiction in about six years. Wild! Sorry if it's melodramatic and boring, but I couldn't shake the idea. Anyway, this is a two-parter that might grow if I feel up to writing more. Enjoy.

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_"The Bright one in the highest _  
_Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest, _  
_And Bright and Dark have sworn that I, the child _  
_Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, the Power _  
_That lifts her buried life from loom to bloom, _  
_Should be for ever and for evermore _  
_The Bride of Darkness."_

_- Persephone and Demeter, Alfred Tennyson_

Thor watches her quietly as she pads across the carpet of her domicile, arms laden with the equipment he still cannot name. His eyes follow the flex of her thighs and calves beneath the short, torn denim as she sits on her heels, lovingly wrapping every piece in rags and towels like a mother might swaddle her newborn babe. She sets them into her luggage and arranges and rearranges, a puzzle of plastic, metal, and glass. She does not spare him even a glance as she travels to and fro, though he knows she must feel his eyes upon her every time she bends and straightens. She does not deign to acknowledge the uncharacteristic silence that is suspended taut between them. He is unsure if she notices it.

"Were you only able to tell me where it is you go, I would not be so vexed by your absence." He pushes the lie through his teeth, weary of the quiet. It is a lie because he would still be vexed by her absence, very much so. Maybe even more so. He knows her answer before it passes her lips.

"I can't, Thor, you know that. If I could, I would." She replies, halting on her path. Her expression is soft and her tone sympathetic, but these are lines from a script they have performed many times before. He knows her reaction is rote.

She has tried to tell him, but when she does, her tongue cleaves to the roof of her mouth, shielding the secret from his knowledge. When she attempts to write it or draw it, her hand cramps violently and whatever writing utensil she is using snaps beneath her seizing palm. She cannot even describe it to him; her normal eloquence is stunted into awkward gesturing as the proper vocabulary escapes her. The notebooks she keeps on her research are indecipherable to him. It is a maddeningly powerful spell that commands her.

Jane continues with her task and he continues watching her. Wherever it is she goes, she does not take anything but her contraptions. There must be much to study there. Every necessity must be provided for her. If she were to bring clothing, then he might be able to deduce the climate of her prison, which would narrow the possibilities, which would bring him nearer to finding where it is she is kept. Not by much, but he cannot allow him even that concession, apparently. The realms are too vast for him to find her without a hint; he has already tried and his opponent is far too thorough.

She has changed. In the months prior to her first abduction, she seethed, she fought with tooth, nail, and science to find a way to wrest herself from his grasp and he fought alongside her. When she left, tears of frustration and anger hovered along the rims of her eyes, but her pride did not allow them to fall. Those cursed three months were the longest of his life - a considerable length when his age is taken into account. Rage boiled in him for every minute of every hour of every day, excepting the moments he allowed himself to succumb to the unfamiliar sensation of complete and utter helplessness. His rage cooled to a simmer only when she returned, whole and healthy, but blank-faced. _Different_. Since then, her behavior follows the patterns of the seasons. When she returns, she is distant, but her kisses and touches increase in frequency as the weather warms. When summer touches North America, she is his again entirely. When the temperature cools, so does she, her affections fading with the leaves on the trees. Come the first day of winter, she is taken from him yet again. Tomorrow, she will be gone.

It never occurs to him to leave her, so he suffers this torture because even the bleakest day with her is far preferable to being without, and the perfection of their summers together are worth every pain inflicted upon him. He cannot blame her for the fate that has befallen her - she is hardly the first to fall victim to trickery - but in his worst moments, he can doubt her. She cannot speak of what happens between her and her warden, as that is protected by the spell as well, but he has suspicions. Why else would she surrender so easily? It is easy to say that these trips sate her curiosity and further her research, quelling her desire to rebel. At first, he thought her inability to describe their interactions was evidence of her innocence. Surely, if he had done something, if they had engaged in _something_, the lord of mischief would want him to know. Now, he understands that her forced silence on the matter is one of the finer, more elegant points of the misery inflicted upon him. Not being able to confirm, not knowing - that is part of the torture.

So Thor is forced to share her with the man with whom he would have shared anything else. He would have given him anything it was within his power to give - love, glory, mercy - but instead, he has taken the one thing besides _Mjolnir_ he wanted to be his and his alone. He is beginning to understand the bitterness his brother endures. Thor used to believe he could not hate him, that he could forgive him of any wrongdoing, but he is no longer so sure.

Finally, she is done and now, he can have her attention. Usually, her dedication to the tools of her trade do not bother him; he is secondary to her work, but she, too, is secondary to his. This season always creates in him an irksome sensitivity in all things related to her. He grits his teeth against the metallic grate of her luggage being zipped. It is a jarring sound and one he associates only with her departures and arrivals. Jane stands and approaches him where he sits in her "easy chair" and reflexively, he opens his thighs to accommodate her slight frame. Her warm hand cups his face, cradling the curve of his jaw in her palm.

"Just three months." She reminds him with the beginnings of a smile meant to comfort him, but he takes no comfort in shadows.

"Three months." He echoes with a weight that hangs from and stretches the time implied.

She moves her small hands to the back of his neck and pulls him forward so that his forehead is cradled in her bosom. Her fingers trail through his hair and he sighs into her shirt, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhales her, refreshes the memory of her scent in his mind. She has not touched him so affectionately in weeks and has barely touched him at all in the past two days. His hands ghost along the backs of her thighs, skirting the edge of her shorts. Her whispery sigh emboldens him, so he allows his digits to wander further, up and between, toying with the hem of her smallclothes. Before long, both of their garments are gone and he has carried her to the bed, wearing her legs around his neck like a collar. She bows and breaks for him until they are both spent. Together, they bask in the afterglow.

His mind wanders down paths best left ignored. Does her body fit so perfectly against his? Does he know how her toes curl and uncurl as she drifts to sleep? Has she ever rolled over for him so he might scratch her back? Her habits and her body are the most tender knowledge he has and it agitates him to think that someone else might be as well-versed as he. It poisons this moment and with venom, he hopes he is still dripping from her when she and her luggage disappear to whatever realm Loki chooses.

She pulls herself up onto her elbows and stares at him, her delicate features twisted with a sudden and intense desperation. Brows pulled upward, eyes widened, lips parted, hair mussed.

"I love you." Jane says hoarsely, with feeling. The quaver in her voice chases away the demons and despite everything else, he believes her.


	2. The Breath of Spring

_"Lost in Hell,—Persephone,  
Take her head upon your knee:  
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,  
It is not so dreadful here."_

_- Prayer to Persephone, Edna St. Miller_

She walks across the bedroom, toes curled up to protect themselves from the cold of the stone floor. It is habit for her by now; surely, after three months, she has grown accustomed to the temperature. Loki admires the swell of her backside and the dainty round of her hip, the silhouette of her curves visible through the nearly sheer material of her night gown. It had been a gift from him and she knew it pleased him for her to wear it, though she would rather sleep nude. He remembers dimly the first gown he had given her and how she had cast it into the fire. He remembers clearly the first gift he had given her and how it had led to this current...arrangement.

"Soon enough, a Midgardian season of your presence will not be enough for me." He drawls as she passes him, packing yet another "analyzer" into her suitcase.

"That's really just too bad." A smile flickers over her face before she replies dryly, her attention still drawn to her chore.

He no longer intimidates her, though he should. Her brilliance has never lent itself to wisdom, but he allows her disrespect, enjoys it even. When she first arrives for her brief visits, she is always melancholy, given to heavy sighs and far-off stares. As days wear on, she warms both to him and to whatever new world he's shown her. By the last weeks, she is retaliating to his teases and laughing at his antics. Her notebooks are filled with her hastily scribbled notes, despite the fact that no one will read or believe them. He dislikes waiting for those last weeks, though, agreeable as they are. Waiting for the end of the Midgardian calendar year is bothersome enough. Being granted a fourth of an eternity with her is still an eternity in the grand scheme, but Loki is greedy and has never pretended to be otherwise.

Jane knows his threat is idle. The spell to bind her to him for winter was costly enough. Even with his vast talents, he does not think himself able to keep her for longer. Not at present. It will be a far sweeter prize if she requests to stay for a greater length of time herself, but it is too great a hope. Asking is pointless and the idea is distasteful to him besides. He has no desire to incur her ire so near to her departure and he has no wish to lower himself by begging her company.

From the beginning, their relationship has been tug and pull, almost dizzying in its constant ebb and flows of passion and antagonism. Immortality has made her bold. She does not nag; instead, she wheedles, insinuating her remarks and feelings and thoughts into his subconscious until, unbidden, things she has said and done spring to mind. Naturally, these memories only seem to surface when he is alone and without her. He wonders if the same happens to her and considers asking, then decides against. An answer in the affirmative will undoubtedly be worded in such a way as to be an insult and an answer in the negative will make him feel foolish. Sentimentality is not something they share.

He assumes all her sentiment is reserved for the _other_ Asgardian in her life. He does not care to spy on their relationship for a number of reasons, the foremost of which is that they are so incredibly _boring_ together. He has seen it, once or twice - fleetingly, of course. They agree on nearly everything, from what to eat to whom they visit, but they speak of nothing substantial. When they are out and about together, her arm is always hooked in his and she dangles from him in a submissive way he finds most unattractive and unlike the woman with whom he has grown so intimately acquainted. Their arguments are few and far between as he's seen them, though he's noted with some satisfaction that he is usually somewhere around the center of them. They are not heated debates over stimulating topics like the position of some solar system or the translation of some magical equation, but rather tearful, heartfelt entreaties tossed back and forth like war volleys. They end with no resolution.

He counts the Abduction of Jane among one of his greatest tricks. He is not above pettiness. He is not above the passive torture of another god. Most of all, he is not above the soft skin and charged intellect of a loud woman half his size. Loki is unsure of when he began taking more pleasure in Jane's companionship than her hero's pain. It may say something about him beginning to rise above a grudge, but that is improbable.

"Are you really so eager to be away from me?" He asks petulantly.

She rolls her eyes at him before turning her back to him, but offers no words. This may be because she is not willing to part with the answer. Never once has Jane mentioned that she might miss him when she is away. In her mind, it would likely be a greater infidelity to her oaf than sharing Loki's bed.

It is a fine bed. And he is lounging on it, alone, because she still insists on her manual labor.

"I would do that for you, if only you asked nicely."

"Nope. I'm done. You do it wrong anyway."

She finishes her packing just in time; he is tired of her inattention. She rises languidly from her kneeling position, arching her back into a graceful stretch and yawn. The gown stretches over her breasts and her erect nipples, drawing his eyes to them immediately. This is part of the game he has every intention of winning. He crooks his fingers at her.

"Come."

She smirks and it is a near perfect impersonation of the one he so often gives her. He is always so proud of this mischief he inspires in her.

"You can't just say it and make it happen. You have to work for it."

Mischievous, indeed.

"Fair point, my lady. Luckily, I am very confident in my abilities to make you come where ever I wish."

He crooks his finger again and this time, magic hooks around her middle and drags her to him. She takes it in stride and she seats herself on the edge of the bed beside his leg as if that had been her intention all along, peering over her shoulder at him in an exaggerated display of innocence. The smile is wiped from her face as he grips her hair and wraps it twice around her fist, tugging her head to his. The effect is immediate; he can hear it in the quickening of her breath. The game is still being played. She supports herself with a hand on his thigh, their lips only whispers apart.

"I miss the days when you were young and fresh. You were afraid of me then."

"You were scarier then."

"Quiet."

His command is empty. He does not want her quiet and as he divests her of her scant clothing, he makes that very clear. As promised, she does come, screaming and trembling. As he watches her from between her legs, he wonders if his dear brother knows how very deviant his woman can be. Does he know her limit? Are her claws and teeth as sharp with him? Does he know that she likes to watch, she likes a hand around her neck, she likes to control, she likes to be controlled? Loki is sure that the animal she is with him is a far cry than the maiden she is with the tender lover that faithfully awaits her on Midgard.

When they finish, he makes some quip or pun and she laughs melodically. When her mirth fades, she smiles at him so beautifully he feels his stomach clench. It is the same smile she gives Thor. The revelation is so glorious that he does not see the distance in her eyes.


	3. Three years

Loki spends the majority of his time alone.

This is not as great a hardship as it might seem. He values his own company very highly and it is refreshing, that after centuries, he has no one to answer to beside himself. The intricate webs of his lies become much neater when there is distance between himself and the flies. When the urge strikes him, he engages with the natives of other realms, of which there is an infinite number for him to choose. Mostly, his year has been spent waiting and preparing for her. This is their third winter together.

Jane has not engaged with natives. Last year, he had taken her to Alfheim, where observing from afar had been for the benefit of her safety. This year, they are vacationing in an as of yet unnamed realm where the locals have just cobbled themselves together into tribes. Though Loki has offered to escort her among them, she refused. She did not want to interfere with their evolutionary progress. She does not want to be worshiped. Here, she gives him a stern glare. What she does not realize is that these beings already worship Loki and they are the ones who have built their lovely winter home.

Jane has no religion and she eschews the idea of higher powers. In his understanding, this is common among the scholars of Midgardian society. So ignorant is she in her arrogance, she does not even believe in fate. When he tells her tales of the olden days, when he and his brethren accepted sacrifices and laughed openly at the prayers sent to them, she grows very cross with him - never with Thor, despite the large part he played in most of those antics. Strange, that she should be angered on behalf of a people long dead. It amuses him to stoke the fires of her rage and after her abrupt rejection the night before, he wants to share in his foul mood, so he revives the subject of her beliefs, or lack thereof. She dislikes discussing them with him. As with most creatures, humans hold their gods (or godlessness) very close to their hearts.

"I find it odd that you have no faith."

She sighs heavily, her gaze still planted firmly on her notebook, but her hand has stilled. Though she pretends at ease, she is clearly on guard.

"Are we talking about this again?"

"You have seen some of the furthest reaches of the universe. You have been courted by one deity and are presently in the company of another. Wars have been fought over less evidence. Yet, you still have no belief in a higher power."

"No. If anything, it's really solidified my atheism. And you're not a god. You're an alien. We've had this exact same discussion before."

"Semantics. I am still a higher power."

"You're more powerful, but you're not...higher than me. I don't worship you."

She snaps her book shut and finally turns toward him. Her irritation is spiking, presenting itself in the line between her brows and the slight frown twitching at the corners of her lips. Loki raises his hands in placation, but his words offer no peace.

"But you do worship Thor."

Perhaps he's pushed a bit too far. Her irritation gives way to blossoming rage as her mouth falls open and she processes what he has just said. Red mottles her cheeks, emphasized by torchlight. Loki has found that she isn't fond of his brother as a conversational topic, especially not in the context of their relationship. He suspects that mentioning him makes her guilty - and how can she keep her footing on her moral high ground if she feels guilty? She still clings to her human ideals of monogamy, even if she did not strictly adhere to them that one evening the year previous.

This is her fault. She has rebuffed his advances and they have been in each other's constant presence for a month thus far. It is unfair to be subjected to the sight of her slender limbs and dark hair without even an opportunity to touch either. That would be enough to make a man greater than he a touch frustrated. He has literally given her an entire world and still, she pines for another man. That was the reason she gave him for her refusal, at any rate, so gentle and sweet it almost felt mocking. She even had the gall to apologize for coupling with him last winter.

"What do you mean?" Her voice raises in pitch; a warning siren. This is the Jane he likes; not the whispering, awkwardly smiling woman she was the night before when she turned her head away from his kiss. Loki plows forward, though he knows to do so is ill-advised. Their time together is so short and she is so stubborn and he will waste days bearing down the walls of her "silent treatment." Still, he is not one to submit in a battle of words and furthermore, he has a point to make.

"He is your sun. You revolve around him. Without him, you would wither and perish. You hear none of his flaws, though I have laid them plainly before your feet. You place him on a pedestal so high, you feel yourself unworthy of him. You're his priestess. His ascetic. You deny yourself the pleasure I freely offer because of guilt." Bitterness claws up his throat like bile, spilling into his speech. A sneer has twisted his mouth.

"Your offer isn't free. If I_ fuck_ you," her mouth ejects the curse with cruelty, "I'm only feeding your ego. Look at you, the big man who took the helpless, vulnerable human from his brother. You couldn't even do it without bribing me. But it doesn't matter. You don't want me. You want to hurt him. It's pathetic.

"If I'm-if I'm the earth, you're the moon. You have nothing of your own, so you just take his light and pretend it's yours. I'm not rejecting you because I'm guilty, Loki. I'm rejecting you because you're _you_. Because you think I'm a possession you can just rent for a couple months a year. What about that is supposed to be attractive?"

Her anger is contagious and her words deliver it with deadly accuracy. Immortality has made her bold. His hand itches with the desire to strike her, but it would only give her more ammunition. Nothing she says is untrue except for her assertion that he does not desire her and that fact stings far sharper than it should. He wants her. Even when his dearest wish is to silence her, he can think of more than ten wonderful ways to do it.

"I'm unsure, Jane. What made you _fuck_ me in the first place?"

He catches the notebook she hurls at his face and storms away from him, fists clenched at her sides, hackles raised like a wet cat. He would find the sight comical - she is just _so_ small - if it weren't for his own rage, which is now rapidly cooling into annoyance. Her comparison was very apt. More so than his. What she did not take into account was how the moon is pulled into Midgard's orbit and how it revolves around the planet just as sure as it revolves around the sun. Perhaps she did and he is more transparent than previously thought.

Later, he visits her chambers, burdened with insincere apologies. Jane, however, is more interested in blood than honey. She tastes of the carelessly fermented local liquor in which she has carelessly overindulged, if her slurs and dilated pupils are any indication. He likened her to a house cat before, but now, she is feral. If he had more honor - if he were_ Thor_ - he would carefully extricate himself from her presence to save her from making a mistake. Loki is not Thor and he has no issues with being one of Jane's regrets. She rides him recklessly with force that belies her tiny frame, furiously working clumsy fingers over herself. There is no rhythm, no delicacy. She chases her pleasure heedlessly, without concern as to how quickly he is following. They both bare teeth - she in an angry grimace contorted with pleasure, he in a manic grin.

Afterwards, she dismisses him and he leaves, without comment, closing the door on her quiet sniffs. He graciously accepts the gift of her hatred. Besides her body, it is the only thing she has freely given him. Unlike her body, it is the only part of her Thor will never have.


	4. Four years

Thor must admit that for a brief period when she returns, their sex is very good.

It is always good. He is always pleased to be with her. Perhaps the better way to describe it would be to say that it is _different_. It reminds him of what such things were like between them when he had first come back to her, after deciding that he would rather live his life a soldier of Midgard than as king of Asgard. There is desperation and need. They grow reacquainted with one another's bodies through frantic exploration. Though in this transitional period between there and here, she is distant from him, her body is always near.

She pushes and pulls at him with vigor, presses kisses to any part of him her lips can reach, keeps her eyes open and insists he does too. She takes him more into her mouth than she ever does; not that she has ever been squeamish about it. Thor understands his desperation. Every time they lay together, he slides into her with the hope that this will be the time he brings her back to him and this will be the time he keeps her here. He does not understand hers and though he hopes it is only because she has missed him in her absence, there is something in the quake of her thighs and the dig of her nails that makes him think it is not nearly so simple. In the same way he is trying to pull her in, he wonders if she is trying to push Loki out.

Jane grows restless in the cradle of his arms and rouses herself to visit the restroom. She returns and begins rooting around in her wardrobe for a change of garment. Thor feels as if he sees her back more than he sees any other part of her. It is a lovely back, though. Her compact nature, so unlike that of Aesir women, has exaggerated her curves and though she is very slight, there is a fullness to her he finds endlessly appealing, even though that fullness is always less when she comes home.

"Is something amiss, beloved?"

She turns toward him, shirt clutched to her stomach, and regards him for a moment before shaking her head.

"No. No, I'm alright. I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Share your burden with me."

The shirt is stretched and twisted between her hands, her teeth drag over her bottom lip. Thor can see her mind turning as she considers.

"I'm late."

He blinks.

"Late? Did you have an appointment today?"

"No, Thor. Late. Like, _late_."

Thor's knowledge of the female anatomy is limited to what pleases a woman, what does not, and how children are conceived. It was not an appropriate topic among warriors of the Aesir, but he has heard that among lovers on Midgard, such discussions should be readily and easily had, when the need arises. Midgardian women are not so modest about the inner workings of their mysteries, if Darcy is any indication, and once, while the two of them were chatting about cramps and what terrible things they wished to do to their ovaries, his discomfort moved Darcy to tell him to "grow up." So he has endeavored to, by asking questions of Jane (which can be sometimes awkward for her, apparently) and by learning of certain slang terms from the periodical literature _Cosmopolitan_.

"You have not bled."

"That's right. And I was supposed to start about a week, a week and a half ago."

The implications dawn on him slowly, sun rising over his mental facilities. _Oh_.

"Oh."

"Yeah. You get what I'm saying? I was on my pill, but things happen sometimes..."

He frowns, rubbing his chin. Were they on Asgard, he would bring her to a healer and confirmation would be simple. However, he does not know if he can take her to another realm in such a...potentially delicate state.

"Are there not ways here on Midgard to confirm or disprove-"

"There are, but it's probably too early."

His frown slowly spreads and lifts until he is grinning. An unorthodox way to start a family, yes, but nothing concerning Jane is ever orthodox and that is one of the many, plentiful reasons why he loves her.

"Why...why are you smiling?" She asks warily, brows raised.

"This is wonderful, Jane," He springs from the bed and walks toward her, arms outstretched. "We will marry soon, within the fortnight. I will make all the necessary preparations. I have already discussed this with Tony - he generously offered that we may make use of one of his many homes. We will have a ceremony here and one in Asgard when the child is born-"

She stops him at the entrance of her closet with a hand on his chest and his arms slowly lower.

"Slow down! How is this wonderful?! You've already been planning our wedding?"

"How is it not? You will bring a life into the world, a life as precious and wonderful as yours, and together, we will watch it grow and flourish."

Her eyes soften.

"That's...very sweet, Thor, but I don't want to have a child and I don't want to get married. Not now, at least."

He does not understand.

"I do not understand."

"I'm not ready. My work - the things I'm learning - I mean, I don't have time. And with what happens every year..."

Suddenly, things begin to click into place. He should have considered it before. His heart twists and writhes in his chest and his joy drains. It is difficult to choose the words and even harder to say them, but he manages, pushing them past mind, throat, tongue, and lips. His voice is lower than he meant it to be.

"I would...I would raise any child of Loki's as if it were my own, Jane."

For a moment, she says nothing beyond her expression. It is simultaneously one of surprise and pain - as if she has been struck. He does not doubt that he looks very similar, but seeing it painted on her face is displeasing to him, so he reaches toward her again. She tries once more to stop him, but he is stronger. If he wants to hold her, he can, he will, and he does. Anger hovers along the edges of his...he cannot rightly name this emotion, but it is not a good one. She is still in his arms and does not return the embrace, but he feels the shirt she was clutching blanket their feet as it falls. Against his chest, she makes small, guttural sounds as she tries to speak, but the spell prevents it.

Eventually, she settles upon a whisper: "That's not fair to you."

She is right, but he does not care, nor does he wish to tell her, so he stays silent. They stay this way for what may be anywhere between five seconds and five minutes. His sense of time is always so skewed when he is with her.

"Why don't you just leave me?" She asks so quietly that he feels the vibrations, hears the suggestion of words rather than her actual question.

"There is no where else for me other than by your side."

Two days later, she bleeds and she is ecstatic. He smiles with her, but he cannot help a small sigh of regret.


	5. First

**a/n: **Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites, guys! And to answer a question asked in a review, I list this as complete because I don't actually know when I'm going to stop/when the inspiration well will dry up, so just in case, I keep it as complete. This was originally just going to be those first two chapters.

Also, I had no idea how to deal with the canon ending of Thor 2 with Loki taking Odin's place, so I awkwardly left it out. Whatever, it's fanfiction! Suspend your disbelief for me!

* * *

The entire drive home, Jane is in shock. It's the only way to explain how empty she feels inside, as if someone has split her open and scooped out everything that makes her human. She is still in shock as she walks into her home, folders and pamphlets in hand. She is still in shock as pours herself cold coffee, as she goes to the CNN website to make sure Thor's not dead, as she returns Darcy and Erik's texts and then turns off her phone. Muscle memory takes over as she nukes herself a Hot Pocket (pepperoni, Thor's favorite), sits down at the table, and promptly burns her tongue with an explosion of cheese that might as well be lava. She spits it out hurriedly and shoves the plate aside.

She wasn't hungry anyway. She stares at the table instead.

As the girlfriend of a living myth, Jane didn't often stop to think about her lifespan. The idea that she might spend the rest of her life with him but he wouldn't spend the rest of his with her had occurred to her before, but only as a distant reality. It wasn't as if every time she looked at the stars, she thought about her tiny timeline. Some things just were. She was still young and relatively healthy, Hot Pocket consumption aside. According to the cover of every women's magazine in existence, thirty-five was the new twenty-five. They never talked about it and they were happy.

A month ago, Jane went in for terrible migraines and her doctor found something. A month later and Jane has just received her final results. Words like _oncologists_ and _chemotherapy_, _radiation_ and _malignant_ all tumble over each other in her mind, jarring and loud like shoes in a dryer. She's not a doctor of medicine, but she knows what it all means, despite her physician's hushed tones and stellar bedside manner.

More than anything, she wishes Thor were here, though when she told him initially, he did not completely understand the gravity of the situation. Cancer didn't exist on Asgard. Surely, the Midgardian healers would do well by his Jane. Surely, his fierce Jane could pummel any disease into submission. His endless, sunny optimism is well and good. It's a part of him she'll never want to see changed. But she's a realist. And she's human. She can apply that endless, sunny optimism to him because he can't die very easily and she knows all too well that she can.

He's in Dubai right now, working with the Avengers on a diplomatic mission that she doesn't have the security clearance to know anything else about. Jane is so proud of him, but she can't help that selfish wish that he was with her instead, even if he can't do anything for her survival and even if he won't understand that he can't. She wants his reassurances, even if they're born of misunderstanding. His presence is so huge that it wouldn't leave any room for her doubts.

This is the life she chose. When she's with him, she can't imagine anything else. When he's gone, like now, she can kick herself a little bit. She had always accounted for the danger of being with him. She might be a target for his enemies or caught in crossfire - a damsel in distress. It rankles a bit, but it's worth it. Plus, it adds a little bit of excitement to her life, outside of programming and star charts, neither of which warm her bed at night. She didn't take into account her mortality as a whole. A trip to Tromsø won't keep her safe from this.

She leaves her seat to throw away the abandoned Hot Pocket and when she returns, Loki is rifling through her papers. For a moment, she's stunned speechless. Her stomach feels as if it's dropped right out of her body.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?! You're supposed to be dead! Y-you...you died in Thor's arms..." Her exclamations decrescendo, losing volume and certainty in equal parts.

He gives her a _look_.

"Obviously not."

Fear ripples through her. The last time she saw him had been shortly after he saved her life, but before that, he had been on the news, in the process of destroying one of the most highly populated cities in the world. If that doesn't confirm him as a psychopath, then, well, not much will. He hadn't seemed exactly stable when they'd sprung him out of jail in Asgard either. It was easy to be brave enough to hit him when Thor was around, but now, she's completely and utterly alone. She's not ready to die. Not before the struggle for her life can actually begin. Her only weapon is a gun, and that is in her bedroom closet. It wouldn't do anything against him anyway, but it would make her feel less at the mercy of a potentially vengeful god. She grabs at her cell phone, but he reaches it first in a display of speed that renders his hand a green and white blur.

"Don't worry, Jane. You turned it off earlier, remember? We shan't be interrupted."

She curses under her breath and flicks her gaze to the door, then back to him. If her adrenaline can carry her at least that far -

"At least listen to what I have to say before you do something foolish," He drawls, crashing her train of thought into a brick wall. "I was your ally for a brief period. I believe you can give audience for a few moments."

"What do you want?" She finds her voice deep in herself and when she pulls it out, it is meek and trembling, and not at all like the one she thought she lost in the first place.

"To save your life. It was so fun the first time, I thought I might do it again."

At first, she doesn't understand and then, her eyes fall to the papers on the table. In her fear, she had forgotten.

"You can...cure me?"

It makes no sense. Cancer is not a _thing_ on Asgard. How would he know how to fix it? Would their healers? Even if they did have superior technology, it would still take study, and she highly doubts the Aesir would want to waste their time studying human ailments. They're not all so open-minded as Thor and Loki wouldn't have access to them anyway.

"I can do better. I can cure you of mortality altogether."

"..._What?_" She exhales the word in a rush of breath.

"How would you like to live forever, Jane?"

"I wouldn't." She answers automatically. Her first instinct is to deny anything from him and her first instinct is usually the best.

"You are lying," He pauses, shrugs. "But, I could be wrong You could be very happy with the natural order of things. Pets generally die before their masters."

"_Pet?-_"

"Do you have a secret desire to die tethered to machines in a hospital bed?"

He begins circling around the table, toward her, and she moves with him, parallel. He could strike her from this distance if he really wanted to, but the wood between them offers the illusion of security she's not ready to release yet. Once he nears the kitchen counter overlooking the small dining room, he plucks one of her apples from the bowl she keeps there.

"It's not a death sentence." Her voice is steady, but only just as she repeats the words her doctor told her only an hour or so before. "It's not too late. I can survive - I_ will_ survive."

"You will survive through months to years of pain and suffering only to live for another half a century - if you're fortunate. And all the while, while you are _surviving_, you will lose your beauty and your vigor. Possibly your mind. Everything that has made him love you. All you will have left is his obligation and when you pass, it will be a comfort to him."

His voice is soft but with every sentence, he manages to stab right to her core. He bites into the apple as he studies her, one brow raised. She can't imagine how her face looks right now; it takes every muscle attached to her skull to force it into something vaguely approaching impassivity. She wants him to be wrong, but there are so many realities in which he's right. Her stomach churns as she watches his jaws work over that apple. In her mind, she lives and dies a thousand times in a thousand ways. If she's honest with herself, completely honest, hasn't she considered the same thing? It angers her that he should so easily pull out every one of her insecurities and line them up so neatly in a few sentences.

How ironic that a liesmith would be the one to reveal the truth of her own thoughts.

She's been quiet for longer than she realized. Loki finishes the apple and the core vanishes.

"Thank you for the apple. I have one for you as well."

In his hand appears another fruit, gold instead of red. Not the mottled, speckled green yellow of Earthly varietals, but honest-to-goodness, periodic table element Au_ gold_. It reminds her of her sophomore year in high school, where they read the_ Iliad_. It also reminds her of her more recent studies and Thor's anecdotes. He doesn't need to explain to her what it is and she knows he sees the recognition in her eyes. It's right there, next to the complete shock.

"How did you get that?"

"I stole it."

Of course he did. He offers it to her and hesitantly, she takes it. It's cool and smooth in her hands. Heavy, too, but not as heavy as a solid gold fruit should be. Her mouth is suddenly too dry and her palms too wet.

"What's the catch?"

He smiles at her indulgently, as if he is very proud of her for asking the question. She's human, but she's not dumb - just maybe the tiniest bit desperate. He gives her his terms and they're vague, but she can glean enough of it to know that it's a terrible idea with terrible motivations and even worse intentions.

"Why do you want this? To torture me?"

"No, nothing so crude. To torture Thor."

He tells her he'll give her the day to consider and as soon as he's gone, she throws the apple as far as she can from her. It puts a hole in her wall. Her hands are shaking as she instinctively reorganizes her test results and the next thing she knows, she's on the floor and biting into the apple. It's sweet, mildly acidic, and vaguely metallic. When she returns to the doctor, the tumor is miraculously gone.

When Thor comes home a few days later, she tries to explain everything, from top to bottom, but as soon as she opens her mouth to say Loki's name, her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth painfully. It unsticks as soon as she releases the syllables of his name, but when she tries to say "your brother" instead, the same thing happens. It's a spell. It's magic. She would laugh if she weren't choking on her own organ. Thor eyes her with concern and if she didn't know better, something near distrust.

She saved the core of the apple, though, and when she presents it to him, he utters the name she can't and puts his hammer through the dining room table.


	6. Five years

**a/n: **Thank you, kindly reviewer, for catching the fuck up. Hopefully, the chapter works now. This site has been giving me a hell of a time lately, so I'm considering updating exclusively to AO3. There's a link to my account in my profile. I haven't decided yet, but man, it's been way too hard just to put up a chapter.

* * *

The life of a refugee can be terribly boring with the entirety of a universe to hide in. Loki is the master of subterfuge and as such, it is very difficult for him to be caught when hardly anyone is looking. Thanos has been defeated by the combined efforts of the Avengers and the laughably named "Guardians of the Galaxy." Only Thor seems to have any lingering interest in his whereabouts, and that is only when he holds his dearest Jane hostage. For nine months of the Midgardian year, he is free to do as he wills, and what he most often wills to do is to flit about from planet to planet.

On these planets, he makes acquaintances, friends, and enemies. He absorbs information. Much of this is for Jane's benefit as much as his own. She is ravenous for knowledge and he likes feeding her; he likes the lights of her eyes, the scrawl of her pen. In traveling, he learns so that he may teach and he measures and evaluates possible worlds to house her during their time together. Though there are an infinite number of worlds, not as many are suitable as one might think. For all her immortality, her physiology is still largely human and there are places where the climate would be unsuitable for her. He treats with kings and queens, ministers and presidents, dictators and emperors, sometimes asking and sometimes demanding a season's residence.

When he stops and reflects on her and all the considerations he takes for her, he becomes...discomfited. Annoyed and should he choose to admit it, ashamed. He does not keep her for her pleasure - he keeps her for Thor's pain. It is unnecessary for him to go to this trouble for her. She owes him everything, after all. He has no need of her delight. His ego is sufficient without her wonder. He knows she is powerfully attracted to him and so he need not deliver her to exotic locales to have access to her body. He does not even need her body.

When he needs convincing of this, he takes a lover.

This current woman is one he has had before, decades ago. She is a queen among her people, a race of beings so magically advanced that they rival even the Realm Eternal. It is his habit to take the wealthy and powerful as his paramours. Prior to his fall, this had been because he felt they were the only ones worthy of his attentions. Now that he is no longer a prince or a would-be conqueror, he does so because his arrogance still demands it. Compared to her and her like, Jane is nothing. Compared to him, she is even less.

During their first dalliance, Loki had taken it upon himself to compromise to a form more suited to hers; smoke, shadows, and whispers collected into the suggestion of a humanoid shape, only just spilling from the edges of conventional lines. Tonight, she has deigned to coalesce herself into solidity. She smells dark and rich, like salt and burning fires and wet earth. She has assumed a body made to please him, drawn in long sweeps with subtle curves. The glamoured skin that binds her diaphanous figure together is a soft, silvery grey. In fact, all of her is this same hue, from leg to nipple to eye. Light casts no shade upon her, no matter which angle she turns. The most interesting is her approximation of hair. Clouds of smoke billow from her scalp in constant motion, pouring downwards instead of up as smoke is most often wont to do. The curls of it dissipate and unravel as they reach the floor, creating a fog around her feet. Her voice has an echo, though she is quiet. She speaks words of desire to him in their strange tongue that sounds for all the world like the sparks and embers that crack when a fire is stoked. He replies in his own native language. Their meanings hang between them and their intent is clear.

He is telling her he wants her. Loki is so very good at lying that he can even lie to himself.

She tastes magic and ancient, all the flavors her scent suggests magnified. She caresses him with confidence, albeit gently, as she is not familiar with forceful touches. When he buries his fingers in her, she hisses like heated metal meeting water. Her skin is cool, but inside, she is all liquid, sinuous heat. She is incredible. Beautiful. Completely remarkable. Even so, she is dancing at the peripheries of the thoughts he tries to drown in a stranger's embrace. Every trail he paves in the grey with his mouth and hands inevitably leads back to Jane. In this moment, he hates her so passionately, so desperately, that it is almost love.

Behind his eyelids, he can see the pedestrian brown of her hair, the practical contours of her body, the creases that line her smile. He can hear her hums, her surprised laughter, feel her short nails. His senses are occupied by her, even when a literal queen is splayed beneath him, a study in sculpted perfection, power incarnate. He cannot help but compare the queen's elegance to Jane's cacophony. There is no number invented for the variety of species there are in the universe. Loki himself is at least somewhat acquainted with hundreds of them, and nearly all of them are more interesting than humans, with whom he has grown far too familiar. He knows for a fact that Thor's woman is not as sexually skilled as even half of the women he has been with in the past, so why won't she leave his mind?

In his frustration, he is more vicious with the queen than he had originally intended. Their race is one of subtleties, which ordinarily suits him well. Not at this juncture. His fingers bite into her sides while his hips drive into hers at an unforgiving pace. She isn't displeased - if she was, she would most certainly stop him - but he can feel his fingertips biting further into her, sinking through the illusory shell. He can feel the wisps of her true nature brushing against his nails. He wants this to end. He wants to be alone, but to deny her climax would be a grave insult and he would never be allowed on the planet again; unthinkable, as this is where he plans to spend his next winter. It seems he can't ever have sex without possible political repercussions.

Luckily, he knows her fantasy body better than she does and he finishes her with clever hands and tongue, though it takes much longer than it should. He does not reach his end, but it hardly matters to the queen, who thanks him politely for his time and bids him farewell. She has no need to say it, but he can surmise by her tone that his performance was only just satisfactory. He leaves with an equally perfunctory goodbye. The citizens of this realm wear no clothing and so neither does he as he makes the trek back to his guest quarters. There are no stairs, no hallways; everything is open and exposed, just as he is feeling at this very moment. He feels raw, angry, dissatisfied. He is humiliated, embarrassed by himself for himself. The queen and her people are not telepaths, but it matters little. He knows what distracted him.

Doors are not typical of the local architecture, but his room and the rooms of other aliens have been outfitted with them for comfort and privacy. He is thankful for it and slams it behind him. Loki will not be taking Jane here this winter. In fact, he won't take her anywhere. She has been spoiled by him and his unwarranted desire to please her and satisfy her curiosity. This year, he will keep her locked in a cave on some remote portion of Midgard and ignore her, save for when his lust needs slaking. She deserves no better. She is insignificant, a piece in his game. He will expend no further efforts on her. He has spent too long without aspirations and for a creature of ambition such as himself, that is inexcusable. He had been using her to fill that void, but no more.

These are the thoughts that warm him after he has finished stroking himself to the thought of her. Even after he opens his eyes, the memory of her voice and body do not immediately flee. He is an incredible liar, one of the most talented in all the galaxy if not the universe, and yet he cannot bring himself to believe anything but how very wretched he is and how he should have just let Jane Foster succumb to her mortality, as nature intended. Loki prefers not to dwell upon regret, but it follows him anyway. His scheme was not fully developed. He had been foolhardy. Arrogant.

How could he have known - how could he have expected to sink himself so deeply?

Seducing her had always been an integral part of the plan, to part her from Thor's trust. He underestimated the breadth of his once-brother's love for her and how easily she had separated her feelings from her physical wants. She laid with Loki, but her true affections were elsewhere. He overestimated himself and his ability to do the same. While he tosses and turns on a pile of feather and fur, she sleeps on Midgard in the arms of another. She gives him her smiles, cunning, and passion. When she comes to him in the winter, she gives Loki what is left over. For centuries, he had been content with Thor's leavings.

It is a cold comfort to think that he is not the first god she was able to change.


	7. Six years

It is a beautiful day in St. Barth's, as was the day before and as will be the day after. The sun hangs at mid-day and Thor and Tony Stark are hidden from it by a festive umbrella. Scattered about the beach are other Avengers. Clint Barton is absent, away on a solo mission for SHIELD. Natasha reclines beneath another umbrella with Pepper, both of them speaking animatedly about some topic or another. Tony quips that he is grateful he cannot hear them. Bruce is alone in the sun, asleep with a large tome on his chest that he believes he has seen on one of Jane's shelves. A poultice has been applied to his nose, but judging by the redness of the skin surrounding, it has not been very effective. Steve is in the water practicing his stroke, enjoying his recreation with the same sense of duty he applies to all things. Scott Lang mumbles and pleads into a mobile telephone ("Janet, come on. Just a few more days?"). The siblings Maximoff seem to be in the middle of some sort of debacle, also in the water. Pietro runs across the waves, laughing, while Wanda causes the water to splash up violently behind him, intentionally missing. He watches their horseplay with a dull ache of remembrance. It is a peaceful day. They are all bonding in relaxation, and it is important for brothers (and sisters) in arms to bond.

He desperately wishes Jane was with him.

In this part of the world, the climate is always hospitable but in the United States of America, it is winter. This means that Jane is gone to parts unknown, just as she has been for the past five years. This is her sixth departure. Thor knows very well that all things grow easier with time and this is no exception. His initial fury has dampened to a sense of loss that leaves him feeling hollow, but it is bearable, especially now that he is being somewhat proactive in the solution. For the last few weeks, he, Tony, Scott and Bruce have been collaborating on a scientific device, or as they call it, a "long-distance tracking beacon." Collaborating is actually an exaggeration. Tony, Scott and Bruce have been collaborating and Thor has been helping to supply magical energy, via Mjolnir. Even so, it was his idea initially and it will be him alone that goes to wherever the device indicates when it is finished.

They are drinking very sweet alcoholic beverages, served in ugly brown fruits he has learned are called "coconuts." They are refreshing in this moderate heat and Thor has put away at least twice as many as Tony, but they are not potent enough for his Aesir metabolism to feel any effect. Tony, however, is extremely inebriated. When Thor comments as such, Tony corrects him by saying he is "shit-faced." It is a colloquialism he has grown very familiar with, being friends with these wonderful people for as long as he has.

"Look...Thor. Can I talk to you about something? Something personal?"

Thor is wary, but he answers in the affirmative anyway.

"You may."

"You can't get mad."

Now, he is more than wary.

"Speak your mind, friend, but I will make no promises."

Tony exhales and bows his head, looking at him dubiously from atop his ridiculously costly tinted spectacles.

"I just...want to talk to you about Jane. Can we talk about Jane?"

Thor can feel himself bristling as he always does whenever she is mentioned during the winter. His jaw tightens and his hands clench slightly around the coconut. Only recently has Thor told anyone the truth of where it is Jane goes every year and it is only Tony and Bruce who know. Early on, he and Jane had recognized the importance of having a story at the ready for her absence and so, they had spun a tale wherein she went to Asgard at his father's behest once a year to monitor any lingering after effects the Aether might have left. It is public knowledge that Dr. Jane Foster is an intergalactic traveler, now, which gives credence to her work. The deception was - is - well-received, but Thor is no liar. That is his brother's expertise; he has no talent in it. Falsehoods make him uncomfortable, but he respected Jane's wishes until he could bear it no longer. Sharing the secret has lifted a great burden from him, which grows even lighter every time he discusses the possibility of the tracker with his colleagues. Of course, he cannot discuss this with Jane, though he wants to dearly. Her contribution would be invaluable, he knows, though Tony's arrogance insists her expertise is not strictly necessary. More over, he wants Jane to know that he is not sitting idly, that he plans her rescue. The project must be kept secret, though. If Loki has such a fool-proof way to shut her mouth, it stands to reason that he would have the key to opening it as well. This lie of omission is the most difficult to keep.

Tony rushes past the silence as he often does, anxious to pour sound into any hole in the conversation. This is, Thor realizes, Tony's best try at sensitivity. He can relate to his friend in that he, too, can stumble over delicate subjects. Delicacy is not in their nature.

"It's cool if you don't," he slurs quickly, "I'm just worried about you. And her. And you know, that hot mess you call a relationship."

Though Thor is not appreciative of his life with Jane being called a "hot mess," he is touched by Tony's concern, even if it is misplaced. Had he used those same words ten years ago, he would have broken the poor mortal's nose, but Jane's influence and his friendship with the well-meaning scientist have given him patience. The man has a habit of forgetting Thor's age and attempting to dispense worldly (unasked for) advice when he is intoxicated. His appearance is very youthful by Midgardian standards and Tony is who he is, so a lack of due deference to an elder is forgivable. The last time Tony had attempted to drunkenly advise him, it had been on the topic of anal copulation. They had not been discussing anything remotely near that subject and yet Tony felt it appropriate to broach it anyway. Thor had to gently remind him that he had probably taken more lovers than all the other Avengers in their combined lifetimes. That had quieted him - or perhaps it had been Pepper's sound slap at the back of his head that did it. At any rate, he wasn't sure either tactic would distract him now.

"The situation will be rectified soon enough. We have our project, do we not?"

"Yeah, see, about that. Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, she doesn't want to be found?"

No, he hadn't. His lips twitch into a frown and Tony takes that for his answer.

"Look, I know she loves you and everything and she probably hates being away from you as much as you hate being away from her, but she's exploring the cosmos. It's the wet dream of every person in her field. The leaps she's made in astrophysics are huge. I know you haven't read her papers or anything, but she's completely changed the way we think about the universe. She's bigger than Stephen Hawking."

It is difficult for him to keep his voice even, but he his attempt is valiant. Even in his upset, he bursts with pride for his lady. She had found a way to translate her bespelled notes into academia, the so-called universal language only he seemed not to comprehend: mathematics. Exploring the cosmos, indeed. She should be doing that with him.

"She is Loki's captive."

"Uh-huh. I get that. Really, I do. Psychopathic mass murderer, believe me, I get that. But he hasn't hurt her. Not once, you said."

"...Yes."

"Then...I mean...if she's 'immortal,'" Tony curls his fingers around the word, "As you say, then three months a year isn't such a huge deal, is it? I don't think he's out to do her harm. Do you harm, probably. But not her."

Thor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You are suggesting that I leave things as they are."

"Kind of."

"'Kind of'?"

"What I'm saying is...what I'm trying to get at is..." He takes a deep pull from his straw before continuing, apparently needing the courage. "Okay, so you don't tell her anything about the Avengers anymore, right?"

"Right."

He doesn't. She rarely asks, but when she does, he skirts the subject, perhaps indelicately. It is through no fault of hers that he cannot share that aspect of his life with her.

"So you don't trust her."

"I don't trust Loki. You had best reach your point, my friend, as I am coming very close to breaking that promise I didn't make."

He raises his hands in placation, but it does nothing to soothe his growing irritation.

"Her, Loki, whatever, it's basically the same thing. You can't share things with her. You can't even tell her you're trying to save her. Honestly, and please don't hit me for this, please, please don't, but who knows exactly what she's doing out there, without you? To quote a million hokey Facebook posts, how can there be love where there is no trust? Maybe you should just...throw in the towel. Let her go. Quit losing at his game."

Thor straightens from his reclined position and turns to face his friend, feet sinking into the sand. He would like very much to hit him - his right hand even clenches into a fist and Tony is flinching as he speaks - but he reigns in his anger with a few deep breaths. There is no offense intended and he must remind himself of this, even if his friend is attempting to question Jane's chastity in so many words. It may not even have been what he was implying. Thor is unfamiliar with insecurity and how easily it can be plucked and sharpened, even unintentionally. He is dismayed how quickly he is learning this.

"Tony, what is Pepper to you?"

He looks confused at the question.

"She's my rock. No, she's my boulder. She's my everything."

Thor nods. "And as she is to you, Jane is to me."

Tony sighs and concedes.

"Right. Sorry." A pause. "You know this thing we're working on...it's a long shot, right?"

"I have perfect confidence in you three."

"That makes one of us..."

Thor rises to his feet and walks toward the shoreline, tossing his coconut aside. He has suddenly lost his taste for overly sweetened and processed liquers.

He has always been very free with his feelings, but he lacks the eloquence to say exactly who Jane is to him and why he cannot release her. It is not enough to say he loves her. He needs her. She is his teacher, his friend, his lover. She was the catalyst to his enlightenment. When he holds her, the storm settles, the clouds part, the thunder quiets, and he is at peace. She is his refuge. His love his a strong one, but not particularly proud. It is able to withstand an innumerable amount of betrayals. The fact that affection still dwindles in his heart for his brother is perfect evidence of this. At any rate, there is no solid indication that he is being cuckolded, even if the conversation had during her "pregnancy scare" still haunts him. She loves him. He knows this and his certainty of it strengthened every time she holds his face and whispers his name. It is his duty to liberate her from his brother's mischief. He is bound by honor to rescue the woman who would be his mate, and Thor is nothing without honor.

* * *

**a/n:** Yay Ant-Man.


	8. Seven years

They traverse the long corridors leading to their rooms, guided by the green lights that line their path. Many faces pass them along the way - diplomats, ambassadors, dukes, baronesses. This planet is a popular tourist destination. Loki nods to those he feels are worthy of his acknowledgement and ignores those who are not. Jane greets every one of them with a warm smile, regardless of whether or not she has been properly introduced to them. She does not play political games, does not pick and choose who to reward with her favor or punish with her contempt. It is enough that someone makes eye contact with her. She babbles on with unmasked excitement, a steady stream of words he has already heard or already expected flowing from her flapping mouth. The meal was incredible. The fruits were exotic. The company was pleasing. Didn't he think it was wonderful, that they were so willing to share their knowledge? Wasn't the queen so hospitable?

It is both extremely irritating and completely endearing.

Humans are adaptable creatures, but so, too, is his kind. He is a Jotun that survived passably as an Aesir, after all. He supposes that his ability to find affection for her even in the midst of her endless prattle is an adaptation he has cultivated to keep himself sane. If a fly incessantly buzzes at one ear and one cannot swat it away for whatever reason - it's too quick, too agile, too protected by an ill-conceived prank - then one must learn to enjoy the music of an insect's hum, mustn't one?

What is merely a brisk pace for him is fairly a jog for her. She stops to chat with a Darbian delegate along the way with whom she has grown somewhat acquainted. Loki does not care to speak to him, so he continues on, prompting Jane to huff and apologize on his behalf. She won't be convinced that what is rude to her race's culture isn't rude to other's; she also won't be convinced not to care. The slap of her sandaled feet on the tile marks her jogging to catch up to him moments later and he considers walking faster, if only to hear her stomp her foot and hiss his name in frustration. Instead, he stops and patiently awaits his mistress.

"Seriously? You are such an asshole!"

"You always refer to me as the same part of the human anatomy when you are annoyed with me, Jane. You've met countless other species by now - couldn't you be more creative?"

He offers his elbow to her and, after a glare, she viciously hooks her arm through his.

"Fine. You're a Ciegrimite asshole."

"Metanephridium."

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

"Or not, as the case may be."

By now, she is smiling, but only grudgingly.

"Or not." She agrees as they finally reach their door. It opens with a hydraulic sigh.

Once inside, she passes him and frees her hair from the intricate knots and buns in which it had been tied, in keeping with the local fashions. She hums in relief as her hair tumbles over her shoulders in messy waves, pins, hairnets, and all other accoutrement flying in every which direction. As she rips off her dress, a satiny confection of feather and ruffles, he, too, divests himself of his formal clothing. Unlike her, all it takes is a thought and his Asgardian attire is gone. She stops in her fabric mutilation long enough to watch his nude back departing into the washroom.

When he emerges, freshly bathed, she is wearing undergarments; a thin, sleeveless Midgardian shirt and "panties". The look she spares his bare torso is appreciative, but her focus is consumed by her preparations for her departure. Her suitcase, the same red, tattered thing she has used for years and refuses to allow him to replace, lies open on the bed and is already mostly full. All the metal, plastic, and circuitry together must be two-thirds of her weight. He seats himself in one of the chairs in their room and watches her with steepled fingers until she deigns to notice him. Her brows raise when she notices he is clothed.

"Why are you dressed? Aren't we going to sleep?"

Sleep is a clever euphemism for how they usually spend their last night together. While he is pleased she is anticipating it, his plans for the night differ slightly.

"Not yet. I've a surprise for you. Finish and dress yourself."

"What kind of surprise?" she asks warily as she fumbles with the zipper. He makes a mental note to procure a new valise for her usage. It irks him that she is so content with the subpar simply because it is familiar to her.

"You're not very good at allowing yourself to be surprised."

She rolls her eyes and moves her things to the floor. In her distraction, she forgets that it should be too heavy for her, that she should require assistance. He makes no mention of it as she strides across the room to the wardrobe, wrinkling her nose at the many dresses provided. What passes for casual fashion here would be costume on Midgard.

"Can I at least get an idea of what to wear? I hope we're not going for a run."

"Something that covers your legs would be a start. As lovely as they are, I wouldn't want you to cause a riot."

She mumbles something under her breath about his being a smart-metanephridium as she plucks one of the less ornate dresses from the hanger and sheds her smallclothes. He would offer to dress her, but she would be angry with him for offering. Her fierce independence often skirts the line of inconvenience. She is a child who insists on pouring herself milk - _I can do it myself!_ - before spilling it all over the banquet table.

As she changes, she glances at him suspiciously over her shoulder, no doubt hoping for some sort of banner to appear over his head announcing his intentions. All she receives instead is his blank amusement. She shares meals, her body, her laughter with him, but never her trust. In all their years, he has never once laid an unwelcome hand upon her, and yet, she still does not trust him. This is because she is a smart woman and Loki both applauds and resents her for it.

She has chosen a brown dress for herself. He assumes because it is the least complicated of the rest of her borrowed garments and not due to the color. It dawns on her that he has seen her in every state of dress and undress in every shade and hue except for this one. He cannot fathom why not. It is the shade of dirt, but on her, it is so much more. It summons all the gold in her to the forefront, highlighted in errant strands of her hair, in the light tan of her skin, and in the flecks of her irises. He wonders if this is a reflection of the apples he still occasionally feeds her, or if this coloration is all her own. Still yet, it may be just another symptom of his uncomfortable infatuation. He considers complimenting her appearance, but stops his mouth before the words can leave it.

They depart from their room with Jane's arm in his, just as they entered it, but this time, there is no buzz of conversation. She pointedly avoids looking at him, instead watching the twists and turns they take and peering at the night sky through the vine-ridden high arches bracing the corridors. When they arrive at the docking bay, she stiffens.

"Where are you taking me?"

He rolls his eyes at her pronounced apprehension and adds a scoff for good measure before releasing her arm and approaching a nearby attendant. She fidgets where she stands, clearly contemplating running. She does not fully understand the parameters of the spell, as he has never completely explained it to her. No matter where he takes her, she will always return to Midgard on the first day of her spring. Always, unless she decides otherwise.

He informs the attendant of his earlier arrangements to borrow a vessel. A lie, but one so plausible that it might as well be a truth. He is granted his request and he nearly drags a recalcitrant Jane to the small ship offered. Her poorly disguised interest in the transport overrides her misgivings and she boards behind Loki. It is as sleek on the inside as it is without, with its diminutive size sacrificing nothing in the way of chrome luxury. Her shoulders slowly ease themselves of their tension as she absorbs her surroundings. Whatever nefarious assumptions she might have had surely flee at the realization that this is a vehicle meant for pleasure, unsuitable for long voyages and unequipped with weapons - not that he has need of external weapons, should he want to cause some sort of damage.

Jane follows him slowly as he makes his way towards the front of the ship. Loki isn't familiar with this model, but their ships, especially the leisure skiffs, all have similar designs. The cockpit isn't so much a pit as a depression. Windows encircle the entire ship, giving a full view of all surroundings. He seats himself at the pilot's chair in front of the console and she wanders behind him, inquisitive eyes drinking every minute detail.

"Do you actually know how to fly this?"

"Yes, Jane, I actually do."

"How?"

He smiles at her as she takes the seat next to him and at his gesture, buckles herself in.

"I have a good deal of knowledge in a great many things. Surely, you know this by now."

She hums in what may be sarcasm. He sees the beginnings of excitement in her eyes and in the upward curve of her lips which soon spread into a full smile. This is her first time being piloted by him, but she has ridden spacecrafts before and he knows for a fact she enjoys them.

"It's kinda funny. You, dressed like that, in this super Star Trek-y, futuristic ship."

"I have no idea what 'Star Trek' is."

"I know."

She turns her fond grin away from him and looks forward, toward the opening bay door. Her grip on the armrest is white-knuckle tight. He starts the skiff and coaxes them from their resting position forward, aligning them with the visible sky. The engine purrs as he collects speed; the faster they go, the wider her smile grows until they jettison toward the stars. He can hear her breath over the roar of the drives, followed by her gasp as they breach the ozone. He gives her a moment to coo her amazement - which never seems to fade, no matter how much he shows her - and process the satellites and trade ships surrounding them, all overlooking the vastness of space. Then, he engages the drives once more, drawing from her a squeal of surprise.

When they stop, Jane's eyes widen and she leans forward in her seat, straining against the belt.

The third moon is uninhabited, and for good reason. Besides lacking a suitable atmosphere, which could be remedied given the technology available, the entire surface is covered in turbulent volcanoes. Jane knows this because he has told her. She looks to him, then back to the view of the grey-black in front of her, a shaking hand rising to cover her mouth. He reaches over and unbuckles her belt. Slowly, she stands.

Red eyes swirl at the tops of mountains before one by one, they burst, spewing and spilling their boiling innards over their sides and up above them. Jane recoils from surprise and the expectation of danger, of which there is none. Their distance keeps them well away from the heat, but they are close enough so that the molten rock casts a ruddy light in the interior of the ship. Suddenly, she leaps from her seat, running around the console. He follows her, stopping a ways behind. She is still, hands and face pressed to the window.

And then she laughs. She laughs loudly, breathlessly, endlessly, with no cadence or melody. She sways, she jumps, she dances, her brown skirts painted red and orange, earth and fire. The gold he saw in her before is now molten. She is pure discord, bursting at the seams of a slender container. A moon burns and bleeds before her and she revels in the chaos of nature, of forces beyond the control of magic and science both. In this one, singular moment, Loki's vision of her has crystallized. She is equal parts clever and brave, burdened by an insatiable curiosity, limited by her innate desire for good. She is arrogant in her intelligence, but humbled by knowledge, unyielding in her desires, but soft in her compassion. She is the best of him and the best of Thor. With every new realm he has taken her and every new food, knowledge, and idea she has consumed, she has become more than human. More than him, than Thor, than Jotun, than Aesir. There is no one in the universe like Jane Foster.

She turns toward him then, her tears multifaceted in the light. At first, Loki is afraid that somehow, this has displeased her, but then she smiles and he knows the tears to be of joy. He walks to her and rests his hand on the small of her back. She leans into him and though her voice is a hoarse whisper, he hears every hushed syllable.

"If I...if I stayed one more week, would you tell Thor?"

"Yes," he lies over the taste of victory.

She faces him, wrapping her small arms around his waist, rubbing her tears into his chest.

"Thank you."


	9. Nine years

Thor shifts his weight from one foot to another, unable to mask his anxiety. Steve places a sure and steady hand on his shoulder to still him.

"Breathe deep, son."

He does as he is told, closing his eyes and drawing three deep breaths before he can tamp down the nervousness speeding his heart and shoving it upwards into his throat. The cool, clean scent of water and cut grass do much to soothe him. The eyes of the assembly resting on him do not unnerve him; it is the impending event that stirs his stomach in a melange of anticipation and apprehension. Tony smiles wryly down at him, winking. The silver at his temples has reached his scalp and his beard and the lines at his corners of his eyes are etched deeper than they had been when he first met him. He doesn't turn behind him, but he knows that besides Steve, there is Clint and behind him, Bruce. Just as they have been before in battle, they are firmly at his back in celebration.

He casts an eye over the audience, sitting neatly in white chairs. The Warriors Three are conspicuous in their dress, just as he is, but they are unfazed by the stares, their eyes only for their prince who stands on display. Fandral and Volstagg grin widely. Hogun does not, but he need not smile for Thor to know his joy. Only Sif seems withdrawn, as she has been since her arrival. He has no idea why. Others are present, too, most of them from Midgard, some of them from places further. He is proud to count all of them as friends of him and Jane.

There will be no ceremony on Asgard, due to the All-Father's fierce opposition to their union. It had been an argument more heated than any, but in the end, Thor counts himself the victor. He may be temporarily banished from the hills and halls of his home, but Earth is his home as well. He will surely miss the Realm Eternal, but he will take comfort in knowing he chose wisely. Midgard has more need of him than Asgard at present, and he has more need of Jane than anything else. It is a shame his father did not approve, for he would at the very least approve of the venue. A white tent houses them, protection from the strong spring winds of the lake, softly lit from within by fragrant torches. Wreathes of local and exotic flowers, all in a deep blood red, decorate the chairs and poles, accompanied by silver ribbon. They are his colors and Jane chose them without prompting.

Jane had been late in returning home two years ago. Only one week, but it had been long enough for fear to hold him in its delirious claws. He had nearly torn down every branch of Yggdrasil until Heimdall had called him back, informing him that Jane was in bed, asleep, safe and sound, leaving his king father to make all the appropriate apologies. When he had come to her and roused her with his frantic relief, she had only blinked her wide eyes, mouth round with surprise. She thought he knew.

It was then that he realized that she was slipping away from him and nearer to Loki. He had thought her guileless, but in her sleep-heavy eyes, he had seen a calm anger that did not match the mournful apologies of her words. It was then that he realized that he needed to make his move. The tracker was finished a year later and working, but only along Yggdrasil's trunk, which would be as good as they could hope for. It was small and discreet. They debated long and hard over how to deliver it to her so that it would be upon her person when she departed. It had been Scott's joking suggestion that it be placed within a wedding or engagement ring and Thor had latched onto the idea. She had rebuffed his rather informal proposal before, but that had been years before, when they both thought her to be laden with child.

When she said yes, he had been beside himself, more due to her agreement than to being able to slip a device on her unnoticed. Of course, it had not functioned correctly in the intended jewelry and that winter, she slipped away again, ineffective tracker in tow. They had found the plainer wedding band to be a better fit for the science and it was agreed that it would be given to her during the wedding instead and that Thor would have to be patient. He noted with some pleasure that before she disappeared, she had not removed the engagement ring and thus carried with her a sign of his favor into Loki's presence. A petty triumph, but one nonetheless.

His musings cease as the orchestra begins to play a soft, lilting tune. The procession begins. First through the entrance of the silken tent walks Natasha, her vibrant hair backlit by the sunset peeking through the archway. Her stomach is rounded; she is due in two months. Then, Pepper, showing her age, but no less graceful or lovely for it. Darcy follows, nearly stumbling through the arch in mid-laugh, her teeth bared in a full smile that prettily exhibits the mirth that always surrounds her. The music swells and Thor is unsure whether his pulse doubles in speed or stops altogether.

She walks arm in arm with Erik, who now makes use of a cane to assist his mobility. It is not on his friend his attention is focused, though. Tony whispers to him to close his mouth and he does with a snap. Her gown is simple, white trimmed with crimson, baring her shoulders and the elegant sweep of her collarbones. Red lips frame her smile, the smile she reserves for him alone, wide, toothy, and dimpled. She glows. There is a radiance about her, one that pales every other beautiful woman in the room. It shines in the intricate braid that curls her dark hair, in the torchlight that plays across her skin, and in the glint of her eyes, streaked gold and brown. Unlike the majority of their friends, she shows no mark of age. She is as beautiful as the day they met - maybe even more so. She is a revelation and from his chest outward bursts pride, love, and a multitude of other emotions he does not know or care to name. There is an elegance, a regality to her he has never before seen; even as she grins, she is serene, her shoulders squared and her chin high. Any questions he may have had regarding her suitability as a queen are quieted.

Erik presents her to him with a firm clasp of hands and murmured niceties before he takes his seat on the front row. Thor takes her tiny hand in his and helps her up the podium, with Darcy adjusting the train of her dress as he does so.

"Hey, folks," Tony begins. Jane looks toward him, but Thor cannot look away from her. "We're gathered here today to celebrate the union of Thor, the God of Thunder, and Jane Foster, the sexiest astrophysicist since Neil deGrasse Tyson." A laugh rumbles through the audience. "Just kidding, Neil."

Tony nods toward the aforementioned man, a colleague of Jane's, who laughs loudest as Tony mimes a phone and mouths the words call me. They proceed with the ceremony, but Thor can't hear over the roaring of blood in his ears. A flicker of movement catches his eye over her shoulder. He lifts his gaze to meet his brother's.

He is clad in a Midgardian suit, but there is nothing human about the green bleeding into blue in his irises. The color of envy. He smiles, but the smile is cold, a crude curvature of his thin lips that reaches no other muscle in his visage. There is something oddly stiff about him, as well. Loki raises his hand to wave and only later will Thor register that the hand was shaking. Sharp-bladed rage tears through his lovestruck awe as if it were all just cobweb. He opens his mouth to shout, to call his friends to arms, but is interrupted by Jane licking her lips and saying aloud, "I do."

Her expression is one of confusion. He looks around; everyone seems confused and Loki is no longer visible. Thor realizes he is trembling.

"Uh...Midgard to Thor?" Tony mutters, raising his brows.

"What?"

"Do you wanna marry Jane or do you wanna keep scowling?"

"Oh. I do. Want to marry her, that is."

Another laugh rises from the crowd. Thor is still angry, but also, he is torn. He is unsure as to whether or not he should raise an alarm - would that be wise, with all the defenseless present? Obviously, he has appeared to Thor alone. Would Loki be so foolish as to attack here, now, with so many great powers contained in one area? He has no allies now, as far as Thor knows. But how much does he know? How much does Jane? He slips the ring - the tracker - onto her dainty finger. She rises onto the tips of her toes to kiss him on cue, too short to reach his lips without his assistance even in her raised shoes. Her hands rest on his shoulders.

Is this how Loki will ruin this momentous occasion? By smirking over his beloved's shoulder? By simply being _there_?

He meets her kiss and the crowd erupts in applause. Fandral whistles, Darcy hoots. He walks through the reception like a ghost, smiling when prompted and thanking absently but politely, drawing upon his lifelong experience as the son of a king. When they take their first dance as husband and wife, Thor again sees him, but Loki does not make eye contact. Instead, he follows their path across the dance floor, face carefully blank. He is watching Jane. As soon as the dance ends, Loki again hides himself from view, but Thor is not so daft as to think he is not still there, lurking. For the rest of the night, Thor sees him in every shadow and in the reflection in the whites of every well-wisher's eyes.

It is only when they return to their rooms that he comes back to himself. Thor undresses Jane reverently, his fingers never parting from her skin as he unzips, unlaces, and unhooks. He is treated to the sight of her underthings, red as his cape, wrapped around her bare torso. Her lip paint smears across his own mouth, her hair falls free of the braid, and he takes her, loves her with his tongue and hands and heart. She curls herself around him when she needs more and breaks free from his grasp when it is too much. Jane is not coy or playful, nor is she desperate; she is fierce and predatory in her exuberance. And much stronger than he remembered. When she tugs at his hair or digs her nails into his back, he thinks if he were more human or if she were less so, she would draw blood.

Afterward, she sits at the vanity and delicately wipes away the colors applied to her face and removes her earrings. He watches her from the bed, lying on his stomach, back still stinging.

"I saw Loki at the wedding."

She doesn't turn to look at him; rather, she meets his stare in the mirror and to his chagrin, it is unsurprised. For a moment, she is silent as she chooses words she can say.

"It was an important event for family."

He can read between the pauses of her words to translate her true meaning out of the language of subtlety and half-truth - Loki's native tongue. Her tone is even, measured. Jane refers to his family; she has none of her own.

"You...told him to come."

She wipes her lips clean. She cannot tell him yes or no, cannot nod or shake her head, but Thor knows her answer to be yes all the same.

"Why?"

She turns on the small stool to look at him, breathtaking in her comfortable nudity. She still glows.

"Thor...we're very happy together, aren't we?"

He nods, though a small, quiet part of him is unsure if he is being truthful. It is his wedding night, but he has not been happy for a great deal of it. For lack of a better word, he is suspicious.

"I want everyone to see how happy we are. Especially people who don't want to see us happy."

Thor's stomach clenches and his jaw slackens. Loki's invitation was meant as a jape and he accepted it. She does what Loki had accused Thor of doing all along; flaunting his so-called superiority, rubbing Loki's nose in his successes. The tension that thrummed along the edges of the man's smile, the empty gaze that followed Jane more than him; those weren't created from his imagination. Not for the first time, he wonders at his brother's true feelings for Jane, outside of her connection to Thor. He remembers the shaking hand and thinks he has an answer.

"_Why_?" He asks again, aghast. He is resentful of his brother, that much is no secret. Still, he would never stoop so low as to be spiteful for the sake of it. He did not think Jane capable of it either.

"You didn't know where I was." She says softly, bowing her head against his displeasure. "I was...mad. I'm sorry."

He rises and takes her in his arms, leaning against the vanity.

"It has passed, Jane. I am not angry with you. He would have come, had you invited him or not."

She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and simply sighs. What he said was true, but Loki may not even have known of their marriage had Jane not worn the engagement ring to see him - assuming their relationship did not rely on interested conversation about each other's lives and assuming he did not spy on them. He had been so proud at the time, but in hindsight, perhaps it was unnecessarily cruel. However, the very crux of his plan depends on Jane wearing the markers of their matrimony everywhere she goes. The fact that Thor can still feel some iota of sympathy for his brother is a surprising and discomfiting all at once. He has grown too soft.

He glances over his shoulder to the mirror and sees his back, streaked red with dotted lines of blood.

* * *

**a/n: **Next chapter is the last! If you guys like my writing, please send me a prompt to work with! Check out my profile for my pairings/fandoms.


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